


Arms Unfolding

by lightningrogers



Series: Arms Unfolding [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Howling Commandos, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Genius Shuri (Marvel), Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Let's forget IW happened, Let’s definitely forget EG happened, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, References to Depression, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Angst, canon non-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-10-18 03:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17573111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningrogers/pseuds/lightningrogers
Summary: Bucky Barnes wakes up, for what he hopes is the very last time.There isn't much more to do now, other than hope, but HYDRA was quick to rip that away with every wipe of his brain.All Bucky wants is to feel something good again.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Truthfully, this fic is not going to be overly long - 10k words or less, but I'm a bit obsessed with the idea of starting and completing a piece of fiction with chapters. This idea centralises around the song "Arms Unfolding" by dodie, hence the title (do listen to the song while you read, if you want!). I'll also be putting the song lyrics in bold italics throughout. Thank you for taking your time to read this spasmodic idea of a story, I hope it comforts your heart as much as it does mine.

**_Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding_ **

It started with sound.

Too much.

Not enough.

Something between the two.

It was the quiet hums, like insects inside his head – loud enough to be right there on the edge of his mind, but soft enough that it was hardly a nuisance if he focused his attention elsewhere. After he’d been the Winter Soldier, anything was easy to ignore with the right amount of concentration. But this wasn’t HYDRA. No, this...was warmth, the feeling of falling and flying and flailing all at once. The softness of sleep, giggling somewhere beyond him, _happiness_. It was overwhelming.

And sometimes the thought of being captured, wiped and controlled was more comforting than horrific. He wasn’t sure if that made him a terrible person or not. Maybe he was just too fucked up. Something scratching at the back of his mind told him this feeling had a name. _Stockholm Syndrome?_ And then he was lurching, no time to scramble for the bucket in his space as he hunched over, gagging, coughing, clenching his jaw as the blood and slaughter sank its teeth into his psyche; branding his brain cells white hot with the screams of those victims. He couldn’t escape it, even if he kept his eyes open for the rest of his life.

_Mission Report: Stockholm, January 12, 1976._

They were innocents, caught in the cross-hairs of his allegiance. _How could I have done that?_ There was a frantic, crying part of his mind. _What kind of monster could kill all those children?_ That part was quelled by a familiar, nefarious leering, _because you are weak. Sick. Twisted. Cruel. They only nurtured what you were already capable of, even if you hid it so well, Soldat._ Always listening, he was seldom self-indulgent enough to take its whispers as gospel, but here he was. Again. As one bad day rolled into another, somehow his brain strived to make every passing second worse. But that wasn’t him. Not anymore (never again, _never again)_  if he could help it.

**_‘Cause this might take a little more_ **

As he peeled his eyes open, still somehow blinded against the muted sunlight inside his hut, he noticed the blood mixed in with the dirt and bile. His own blood he could deal with. Blood not shed from an act of his own hands – real or metal irrelevant – he could withstand. The metallic taste only intensified as he probed the inside of his mouth, ragged flesh indicating a bitten tongue and cheek. That, he could deal with. He’d heal within a minute or two anyway, judging the pink-tinged foam he managed to spit into the bucket waiting at the end of his cot. He’d dealt with worse, lived through worse and survived the worst of what life had to offer him. A little trauma, daily flashbacks and triggers from seemingly unassuming places, _he could deal with_.

Until he couldn’t.

He was more fragile now. He’d noticed it. Memories resurfacing in harsh slices of life, fractured shards he couldn’t properly piece together. The constant torture and training and memory wiping had made this a non-issue, but now he was safe (or at least as safe as he could ever feel again), fed and bathed and groomed and metal-arm-less, it left a lot of room for too much thought and not enough action. Too many memories and not enough amnesia, and if he thought about that too long, he might be sick again at the idea of his own autonomy. That’s what this was: surviving but not living. Inhaling and exhaling but not truly _breathing_ – caught under the weight of his own guilt. Too many choices, and not enough direction to know which were the best options available.

The Wakandans were lovely to him throughout it, didn’t stare or flinch at his differences, but he still yearned to be back in late 1930s Brooklyn with Steve by his side. He’d liked himself back then, back when he was just James, just Bucky, a bit of a lady’s man and a hell of a tease. It was so much simpler, back when he moved into Steve’s apartment to keep him safe, sane and alive after his mom died. He desperately wanted that feeling back, even if he didn’t remember much, apart from what he’d recalled before he’d been frozen again for his own safety.

**_I think I'd like to try and look at you_ **

  _Your mom’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspaper in your shoes._

The ways Steve’s breath had hitched in that warehouse – as if he was still ninety pounds and anticipating an onslaught of the gruesome, feel-it-in-your-bones kind of coughing he was so used to having – was irreplaceable. Just like his flashbacks and horrors played a symphony of broken records (and he’d had plenty of those, back in the day, when Steve had whiled away his better-but-still-sick times in bed, playing record after record and drawing to his heart’s content) the softer, more fulfilling side still supplemented his torment from time to time.

Consisting of poor-quality photos and videos, coloured shades of black and white, some others brown and yellow, a signature of the time they were shot, there was no sound as they continuously looped in an endless slideshow: _Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, best friends and comrades in childhood, life and war._ He’d kept to himself, for the moments he’d spent at the display in the museum, where photo-quality drawings came to life in framed cream coloured paper; pencil sketches so real that when Bucky looked at the image of himself in his uniform, he almost felt like that person again. The memorial said they were donated by an artist named J. Grant, but Bucky, even with the limited memories he had, knew they were drawn by Steve’s own hand; paper pulling the images out of him like they so often did when they were younger. All of them were there, Dum Dum, Morita, Monty, Gabe and Dernier; Steve had even taken the liberty of drawing himself, but Bucky could tell it was rushed, not clumsy or askew, but still not as good as the rest, as if Steve didn’t want to have to consider his own face for longer than necessary.  

At the end of it all, he watched a seemingly younger, freer caricature of himself mouth “We _are_ friends!” to someone beyond the camera while Steve, in his new body, smiled and nudged him. Behind that, Bucky now recognised how awkward Steve was, trying to learn how to carry himself in the new life he led, could decipher the unmistakable itch in his eyes, like he was ready to shed his skin; something that Bucky himself had felt too, early on, with the imitation serum coursing through him. He still felt it now, sometimes, if he thought about it hard enough, but it was easier to ignore, rather than try to forget. He’d forgotten too much of his past already to let another thing slip through the sieve of his hands, no matter how minuscule.

Just like he ignored that burning itch just below the surface of his skin, he also ignored the constant ache in his shoulder and back, where he’d had his next most dangerous asset taken away, second in command to the Winter Soldier tucked away somewhere in his brain. He couldn't say he _missed_ the arm, not by a long shot, but he had desperately hoped they didn’t just have a replacement prosthetic one. After Stark blasted it off, the nerves in his body had gone ablaze, panic firing in his head: _Soldat, protect yourself, you are the Asset._ He was on fire, spinal cord spitting venom where the attachments and mechanics had been blown apart. The sparks flying towards his face kissed his cheeks with tiny licks of warmth as he squashed the urge to scream, to cry, roar, _anything._ But he only lay motionless, poised into contentment and fear at letting his pain be known.

_Slapped. Beaten. Shirtless. “Wipe him and start over.” Pushed back into the seat. Guard placed into his mouth. Willing. Cuffs clasping. Breathing, breathing, breathing, gasping, hyperventilating. Plates moving, resting over his face—_

His consciousness was swimming, vision tiding in and fading out of focus as Steve stood nose to nose with a man he’d called a friend. All for Bucky. He couldn’t dampen the pain after that, either, as Steve dragged him away from the fight, the implants in his brain encouraging the ever-present urge to put a bullet in his skull.

_That’s what you must do, Soldat, you are worthless without HYDRA or the arm. Surrender, or take yourself out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! don’t forget to kudos and add a comment if you like :>


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in this chapter for brief memories of rape/non-con.
> 
> This deviates a little from what is considered canon after Civil War, especially to do with the programming, so enjoy my creative liberties.
> 
> Update: In a previous version of this chapter I used what I had always believed to be a Native American/Cherokee story regarding the black wolf and white wolf. I used this as a symbolic connection to explain how Bucky was renamed White Wolf by the Wakandans. Since originally publishing this chapter I have learned that this is a fabrication by a white pastor to demonise Native Americans and their traditions, and that it is an extremely racist story. I have revised this chapter accordingly, and sincerely apologise to anybody who this may have offended. Growing from misinformation and using appropriate language is paramount. As always, thank you for reading.

**_And feel the way I did before_ **

 The ache, both of his body, and those ferocious words, never seemed to cease. It was okay, though, he was surviving (but not living, never, _never_ living), and he knew he could tell them – T’challa or Shuri especially – that he wanted more from this life. He could spew out all the words he’d never been able to say in the seventy years he was imprisoned as HYDRA’s loveliest, deadliest weapon. He could spill his metaphorical guts to a professional who could guide him, help in ways he’d marvel at, instead of ridding himself of the contents of his literal guts, stomach curling, knotting, twisting, gripped in nightmare after nightmare, flashback after flashback. He knew he could have more. But he never took it, even when his fingertips brushed upon the opportunity the same way he’d used to hint to a dame he wanted to hold her hand. They’d told him they’d figured out a way to help him, when he’d woken up out of the cryo-chamber in Wakanda, barely three months after he’d first gone in. He could remember Steve asking him with clarity:

_“You sure about this?”_

Bucky hadn’t been, but it was also better than trying to live with HYDRA still inside his brain day in and day out, so he’d replied:

_“I can’t trust my own mind...so until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing. For everybody.”_

Bucky could still see the moment Steve’s face closed off to his comments with clarity. He wasn’t going to stop it from happening, never would have taken that decision from Bucky, but was still crestfallen with the turn of events. He only wanted to help, but this was what needed to happen. They stood with each other a moment longer before Bucky backed into the tank, Steve watching helplessly and imagining every instance he was locked away in a similar fashion against his will, compared with the serene clarity of this one time – the _only_ time – he was consenting.

And still, no matter how much the Winter Soldier had been conditioned into an alloy: amalgamations of iron and steel and all the bitter tang of copper, as he thawed, those few months later, he could only protect Bucky Barnes from so much of the seeping, biting freeze of cryostasis. There’d been flashbacks as he’d defrosted (for what absolutely _had_ to be the last time – Bucky seriously doubted he could survive any more of what cryo had to offer), of the war; toes going numb in their boots, Monty losing part of a finger to the snow and the bite, but, too, the smouldering fires that they huddled around when they camped between villages. The quiet camaraderie in such sour circumstance; girls back home for the younger Howlies, and the wife and kids for Dum Dum; sharing a tent with Steve and his suddenly furnace warm skin, so close to a replica of laying side by side in a tiny bed, in an even tinier apartment. If there hadn’t been much space there, with Steve all rattling coughs and wheezing bones, then this closeness was smothering. Recognising that same heat within himself, not as rampant, but still there, like water left to simmer instead of boil. Truly realising something wasn’t right when he’d given his last pair of socks to Dernier, only to have no damage to his feet, four days of walking later. Watching with sickening fascination as he nicked himself with his knife, trying to mend a hole in his pants, the shallow cut on his thumb sewing itself back together. Zip-lining, the train, fighting and yelling. _Something about Coney Island._  Being blasted. Hanging. _“Bucky! Grab my hand!”_

 _Falling_...

_Falling..._

_Falling._

He doesn’t remember the landing. Surely he’d died. But somehow, as the makeshift serum tried to heal him of his wounds, he could see the fluttering of white if he closed his eyes and let the memory glue itself back together for long enough. Could taste the water in the snow that fell into his open mouth, barely melting between his blue lips and tongue. Being dragged, the butt of a gun colliding with his eye socket as he groaned and writhed and tried to scream out into whatever direction was up.

_Steve, I’m here. Please._

Voices, so many _fucking_ voices, not one in a language Bucky could understand (though, he mused at how that had changed). And Bucky had never truly been warm again, caught within the grey areas of being alive and dead all at once in a frigid glass chamber, or the throes of total white noise, people dying between his new, silver fingers.

_Soldat. Asset. Mission._

 He’d come out of the cryo in Wakanda gasping, unused to being left alone before the act, no longer a blank slate, a puppet or weapon to code and rewrite with every defrosting. All the memories he’d collected between his escape and his refuge sitting in the cells of his head, waiting to talk to him, to welcome him home. _But this isn’t home, Soldat, and you know it. You are nothing without HYDRA._ The voice hadn’t subsided, never did – HYDRA had made sure he always had an initiative to return to them, rather than exert force they couldn’t be bothered expending trying to capture what was theirs anyway. _Take away the autonomy, take away the man._

**_Oh, our fire died last winter_ **

There’d been people waiting, too, so much friendlier than the handlers he’d come to resent. Their faces concerned as his eyes rolled in their sockets, skin vibrating with the competing temperatures. They let him wake on his own, the chamber door... _open?_  Let him shift and adjust as he needed. There was no pushing or shoving, no probing, or electrocution or angry growls. _No one is yelling...why aren’t they yelling?_ There was no muttering or snickering while being slapped on the ass, drunk off of the drugs they manufactured, serum resistant, used to keep him docile, _vulnerable_. He was only as much of a weapon as they wanted him for – so quick to give him the power, but just as assured in stripping it away at their own sick whim. No attempts to reconnect his body and his brain while he was bent over a medical slab, naked, too many fingers not taking their time in forceful entry. _Was it still even just fingers?_ He couldn’t tell. Violation beyond belief, the rape, not just of his body; but of his mind and spirit and he screamed and thrashed inside his head. Devastation beyond repair.

But these people now were patient and caring, offering him blankets and water, as if the privilege of being suspended wearing clothing hadn’t been enough. They _asked_ to touch him, withdrew when his breathing turned into sharp intakes, eyes flickering as he kept remembering and remembering and _remembering_. They waited until he nodded between his gasps and buried himself into the weighted blanket they wrapped around him; astounded by the generosity when he later found out it was actually his to keep, specifically tailored for his ideal weight range. The room was warm, the medical table he sat on was padded, for what felt like the first time ever, just a little of the tension eased away. Comfortable. Though Bucky still found a way to be sceptical, on guard and protective of the new life he was regaining, in spite of every kindness he was given.

 “It’s important we document these occurrences, James. Do you mind if we take some notes?” He shook his head in assurance, words ragged and catching on the shredded muscles of his throat. His kind of quiet wasn’t uncharacteristic, but that didn’t mean it was any easier to witness. The nurse just smiled at him though, so friendly and accepting, as she kept her distance and took the notes they’d add to his extensive, incomparably brutal file. Most of HYDRA’s documents had been rewritten by now, the insensitivities and obvious cruelty replaced with the respect of professional medical objectivity. He didn’t know what he did to deserve such a kindness.

The thawing had taken place just over two months ago now, though, and nothing they’d done so far had helped. He groaned again, reliving these months, kneeling on the woven mats of his floor as if he could ever ever believe in any kind of god again. Rolling onto his back, the drapes over the windows did little to drown out the shattering brightness as he came to his senses. If his side was aching before, it was positively screaming now, the remnants of the silver plates biting and protesting with any move he made. Some days weren’t so bad, but this was apparently not one of them.

Bucky was then acutely aware of the faint coughing noise, like someone clearing their throat, just outside of his hut. Not caring about who saw him like this, he called out. “Just come in already, s’not like I gotta lock.” Laughing lightly, Shuri appeared in the doorway, face bright and cheery despite Bucky’s obvious discomfort.

“Up and at ‘em, Sargent.”

“Very funny. Come and help an old man, would you?” She grabbed him around the forearm then, fingers lightly bracing his left hip so she didn’t accidentally touch the sensitive pieces of metal fused to his skin. As he stood, swaying, she held him as steady as possible. “I’m okay,” Shuri looked doubtfully at him with those words. “Really. I am.” She nodded at that and finally let go.

“Doctor Irikhi and I need you in the lab, some things have come up.” Bucky’s eyes involuntarily narrowed, and the curling in his gut told him _more experiments, more hurt_. He didn’t mind Irikhi, either, but his poorly masked fascination grated on Bucky endlessly.

“Things?”

“Things.” Leading the way to the castle from his hut next to the lake. Bucky purely followed along, no matter how reluctantly. 

**_All of the shouting blew it out_ **

“We found something, it’s almost undetectable to both the eye and any technology we’d previously had. I updated some of the imaging software, which is why I had you come in the other day for another scan.” Bucky had thought it was strange to be having yet _another_ MRI, but at the time Shuri had assured him it was just standard proceedings, nothing about her betraying the fact she’d invented new technology just for him and his fucked up brain. They were in the medical wing of the castle now, and Shuri tried not to hesitate too much as she glanced at Doctor Irikhi. “It’s a kind of implant...in your brain, James.” Bucky could only stare dumbly at them, because of _course_ HYDRA wouldn’t make it easy.

“ _What_?”

“You don’t have to worry, while the implants are grounded in artificial intelligence, they will die as soon as they don’t have a host to feed off of.” Shuri assured him, “they will die as soon as they’re extracted, and we have reason to believe that removing them will also deprogram the trigger words.”

Doctor Irikhi spoke up then, “it makes sense with the wiping and electrocution – re-calibration of the implants, if you will.”

“So...I have a robot... _parasite_...feeding off of my brain? Making me relive all these things?”

“Robot _parasites_ , actually. There’s three of them,” Bucky blanched again. “But yes, we like to believe so.” Irikhi nodded along with Shuri. “And so, next thing to consider is the surgery to remove them.” At that, Bucky’s eye’s grew, fearful and wild. “Each implant has four legs which have been secured into your brain, we are hoping with careful extraction that we can both alleviate and minimise the damage, but we’ve never done this before. We do however, have all the research, technology and data ready at a moments notice, so you can be sure that you have the best chances possible, James.” He stayed silent for a while after that, mulling over every detail in his head. Nothing else had worked, and this seemed like the only option left – besides the inevitable _do nothing,_  which wasn’t ever a conceivable notion to Bucky in the first place.

“Fine,” he finally croaked, anxiety over everything _but_ dying pervading. “I’ll have the surgery, if you think it will help.” The nurse from the day he’d come alive again was there, still quiet, still gentle and respectful. She reminded him of what he could remember of Becca, in a way that had his chest throbbing, seizing at the thought and stuttering as she held out a plain gown for him to change into. “I, uh, I want the new plates, too,” Shuri was stunned at that. She’d designed him a new arm if he’d wanted it, made of vibranium and more powerful than anything HYDRA could have made for him without stealing the ideas. She’d offered it so many times, and with each insistence, Bucky had declined. Truthfully, he was petrified about anything happening if he had it, even if the chronic pain was frightful. He would rather bear that over even fathoming losing control again, with the potential to hurt someone. The first part necessary for the arm, however, was to take apart the metal bound to his skin and nerves, and replace it with a lightweight vibranium panel and clasping socket, the ability to attach and detach at any time a request of Bucky’s. Shuri and Irikhi made their assurances and promptly left to meet with the surgeon and prepare for the procedure.

He was led into the operating suite, made to sit on the slab of a table as the nurse prepared him. “I never got your name,” he wanted to know her a bit more, because if this was his last interaction ever, he wanted it to be kind: cradled in the warmth and security of innocent curiosity, something good, pure, _whole_.

“Masedo,” she turned again, meeting his gaze before casting her eyes down, focused. Piercing the skin, Bucky didn’t even feel the slight pinch of the needle going into his hand.

“Thank you, Masedo,” he continued to look at her even as she busied herself taping the I.V. and tying the gown around his neck and waist. “Everything you’ve done for me while I’ve been here in the castle means a lot.”

“Do you not deserve compassion, James?” Bucky almost flinched at the name. Would he ever be worthy of being James Barnes again?

“Most of the time I wonder why I wasn’t shot on sight, considering all the shit I’ve done. Kindness in my direction is still a mystery to me, let alone empathy.” If his swearing had offended her, she didn’t comment or make it known. As she stood beside him, pretending to fuss with taking his vitals and continuing to prepare him for surgery despite already having done it, he could almost hear the pondering in her mind as she spoke.

“Your people, the settlers, I’ve seen what they do to my own continent, let alone what they do to others. The history is terrifying, no?” Bucky couldn’t tell where Masedo was taking the conversation, but she merely continued as if he hadn’t nodded his head in slight confusion.

"Many were apprehensive of a white man living among us, James. You came here programmed to be a machine, forced into servitude and broken into a vulnerability no one should have been able to survive, super-soldier or not. We didn't know what to expect," Bucky looked down, chest clenching. "But you have grown: you are safe and loved and nurtured. We are helping you and you are helping us. You are gentle, friendly, helpful. _You are good_ , even if you don’t believe it. For as long as you were the Winter Soldier, and he was in control, you were there, waiting until you could tear him apart and succeed. That’s what you’re doing now.” Bucky let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, not trusting himself to meet her gaze as she tried to catch it, ducking her head and smiling warmly. As she did, Shuri and the surgeon bustled in, donned in scrubs and smelling of antiseptic. Laying back on the table, he stared at the ceiling and the blaring lights above him. Before she left and the surgery nurses entered, Masedo patted his arm one last time.

“Good luck, White Wolf.”

He laid so peacefully then, waiting and unafraid, the idea of waking up and still having those things inside his head, such a _darkness_ , was more tortuous than he could bear. Maybe his resolve was weakening, but he’d rather feel _alive_. As he drifted, consciousness tiding like it had so many times in his life, nobody could have explained to him the reason why Steve’s familiar, soothing eyes were the last thing he saw as he left his body. Another part of him surged forward then, and told that it was what Bucky had seen every time he went under.

The solace he took in that was unshakeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! don’t forget to kudos and add a comment if you like :>


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m genuinely so sorry for the wait. But it’s here, and every other chapter is finished too. Look out for them soon.

**_You know I could live without or with you_ **

“He’s under?” 

“Yes.” 

A sigh and pause. Skin pinching between brows, behind tinted glasses. “Make sure he stays that way.”

“If you were more cooperative and prompt, Mr. Stark, that mightn’t be an issue.” 

“Listen Irikhi, this is one of the last things I could be doing with my time but I’m here aren’t I? I could’ve just left him for more torture if I felt like it.” Tony’s voice was sour with anger and his eyes flickered to the unconscious man on the hospital bed, the heart monitors beeping steadily. The tubing around his face and tape over his eyes was jarring; a crippling vulnerability as his chest rose and fell thanks to the ventilation. Somehow though, even underneath the powerfully effective sedation (Shuri had been making astonishing advancements in specialised super-soldier medicine since Bucky’s arrival) there was no trace of the usual openness of a typical patient. Somehow Bucky still retained tension, from the way his jaw seemed pried apart to make way for the tube in his throat, to the furrow of his brows as he continued to sleep. 

“Mr. Stark, I know this isn’t… _ideal_ …”

“Ideal left the building a long time ago _pal_ ,” jaw so tight, the words forced their way through his teeth, and Tony raised his arms to the sky. “Howard was trying to cure like…diabetes or cancer, not contribute to the training of HYDRA’s personal attack dog – the same one that would go on to _kill him._ Yeah. Situation is definitely not ideal.” 

“And yet, you still agreed to help?” Shuri was hooking the mask around the lower half of her face when she spoke. “Good to meet you face to face Mr. Stark.”

“So we meet again, Princess.” His eyes narrowed. “Have fun hacking my building?” 

“I’m just proving your firewalls suck, nothing more.”

“Yeah? Well Friday has trust issues now, so thanks a lot.” 

Tony could almost see the grin, from the way the mask stretched and her eyes crinkled. “We have a viewing room equipped with everything you might need to help remotely deactivate the implants. You brought what you could find–”

“–of Howard’s technology, yeah. Been meaning to reexamine this one for our med team. Never had any idea the Nazis found out about it, let alone stole the design and made it _work_.” 

“Alright,” Irikhi cut in between them, holding his arms in front and slightly away from his body. “Ready to get to work?” 

 **_But I might like having you about_ **

“Princess, we did all we could,” Irikhi patted Shuri on the shoulder in comfort. Shuri tilted her head around, stretching her neck out from its fixed position. 

“I know, I know,” Her degloved hands came to scrub at her face finally, exhaustion setting in. “I’m just worried it’s not enough.” She unhooked the surgical mask from around her ears, and Irikhi could then truly see her contempt etched into the worry lines on her young face. 

“Well, he’s still here, and that counts for something miraculous I think.” He smiled warmly at her, his own fatigue crashing over him. “Time for some rest before the next storm, yes?” Shuri looked to him then and nodded. 

“I’ll see you back here in twelve hours then, doctor.” 

Once Irikhi had left the room, Shuri looked back into the operating room where Bucky still lay as still and lifeless as ever. His chest still rose and fell, and the bandages on his forehead weren’t permanent. He wasn’t at risk of infection. He was, under nearly every circumstance, fine. Shuri watched the nurses transfer him into his proper bed, the mattress more accommodating than the one on the operating table, the recovery room just beyond that. Tony had long gone, as soon as the first inkling of finality had come over the operating suite. He would still be around the castle somewhere, but Shuri was sure he wouldn’t stay for any longer than totally necessary. 

She’d never tell him, but Friday’s security was actually more nuanced and impressive than Shuri had anticipated. She still got through though, of course. Tony’s infinite reluctance to help the matter had set Shuri on edge to begin with, but after talking about his attitude with T’Challa, her older brother had assured her he was simply like that. The breath Shuri held was relieved with a body-wide sigh, the leaden feeling of her limbs making her feel heavier and heavier. “This better have worked.”

She watched Bucky go, then, medical doors opening and closing behind his nurse-driven bed, I.V. bags swinging in tow. 

**_Yes, these new walls are pretty hard to crack_ **

“We started to taper the sedatives when we heard you were on your way.” The nurse on duty informed them both. Shuri wasn’t sure about the man beside her, but twelve hours was hardly enough time to recuperate.    

“And he’s breathing fine?”

“Oxygen levels are within range, we took out the intubation tube a few minutes ago with no cause for concern.”

“Promising, then.” Irikhi added, nodding and staring intently at Bucky’s still sleeping figure. 

“So Sleeping Beauty is being woken up with his true love’s kiss, is what I’m hearing.” Tony meandered into the room, face somehow evading any semblance of cynicism. 

“I guess so. Probably better that we stand back a bit, I can’t imagine crowding him will do much good.” 

They all waited then, far enough away to give him room but close enough to watch in strained curiosity. A nurse gentled him, readjusting the cannula in his nose and smoothing down the blankets as she talked softly. The heart rate monitor picked up by a beat or two, his eyelashes shivering. “James? Time for you to wake up.” His lashes merely continued to flutter. They all waited with their breaths held, Shuri most anxious of them all. The _what if_ s continued to spiral, and she bit her lip as she stared intently at her patient. If this went in any way south, it would be her fault – she was sure of it.

Then, more movement, as his face crumpled and his toes curled, a low groan, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Peeling his eyes apart, still adjusting and unseeing, flicking back and forth as he finally woke with nothing slaughtering the receptacles of his amygdala. No fear, no flashbacks, no pain. Bucky Barnes woke up for what had to be the last time. There were no other options. 

The first thing he knew was his name. “Bucky,” he choked on his breath, gasps of air, floundering, like he was taking in water. A sinking ship. “My name is _Bucky_.” All wide eyes, staring, staring, _staring_ , and the shaking, trembling at the resurgence. Then, a boy made of stars, sent from heaven itself in the form of an earthly spirit; housed in a body that couldn’t contain it. “His mom’s name was Sarah. He wears newspaper in his shoes.” Somehow, throughout everything he’d endured thanks to HYDRA, Steve would always be the last thing to be erased – the memories in which he manifested almost as stubborn as the man himself – and the first thing to come back. 

“Who is he talking about?” There was a girl speaking, a strange slab in her hands, and as she tapped it the lights danced in and out of focus, dimming as Bucky squinted at the overexposure, panting, trying desperately to suck in air and push out carbon dioxide. _Is this how Steve feels?_

“Where’s Steve?” They continued as if he wasn’t even there.

“...The ice spangled man with a plan himself, if his question is anything to go by.”

“ _Howard_?” The oddly familiar man halted, eyes narrowing as his fists clenched and unclenched from behind the glass windowed room. Bucky’s breathing tightened as they stared at each other. After a moment, Howard turned his eyes down, one arm coming to wrap around his chest, the other resting atop it, thumb inching closer towards his mouth, where he could chew on his nail with frustrated tension.

“Yeah,” he finally breathed out, never looking towards the stranger in the bed, this wide eyed, confused person that had the face of his family’s assassin, “something like that.” Shuri was quick to make him try to stay but he shrugged her off with a whispered sneer.

“Find someone your own size to play with, kid. Fuck around inside his brain like you have been for all I care, just leave me the hell alone. If Rogers decides to make his appearance, I was never here. Got it?” Then he was stalking away, reaching into his pocket, dialling to make a phone call, distracting himself from the fact the man who killed his father in cold, calculated (albeit _brainwashed_ ) blood had confused the two of them. It was all just too ironic. Though, for all he was worth, for all the malice and poison laced words, Tony Stark still cared enough about Bucky, because Steve was his friend. Throughout their fighting, violence and moments of hatred, Tony had come to regretfully admit to himself that without Bucky, there was no Steve.

“Fuck around inside my brain? The hell am I? Don’t tell me Stark’s an undercover Nazi freak. God, wouldn’t that be a cherry on top.” Bucky lamented to himself. 

“How much do you remember James? What year is it?”

“No one’s called me James since my ma clipped me around the ears for cursing.” A sheepish grin, “and last I checked it was 1945.”

The grin fell from his mouth after that, eyes glazing over and staring wide, so wide, at the empty space on his sheets, hand coming to curl around the edge of the thermal blanket, fingers worrying. “It’s not ’45 anymore is it?” 

“It’s 2017, James. I know this must be difficult–”

“It’s...okay,” Bucky interrupted. “Did I really do all those things? Hurt those people?” 

“That wasn’t you. And with a few more tests we’ll know if that capability has been successfully wiped from your brain.” Shuri gestured to the left side of Bucky’s body. “On a brighter note we did at least successfully transplant the base for your vibranium arm. The plates and socket are all there, ready for you.” Bucky looked down at the space where his arm should have been, as if he was only seeing the empty air there for the first time, only just now remembering. 

“Thank you.” Bucky looked back up at the girl, _Shuri_ , his brain supplemented. “You have no idea what this means to me.” 

“It has been a pleasure. I’ll let you rest now, in a few days we can see about those tests.” 

**_And it might take a while until I trust you won’t attack_ **

Bucky had been up and on his feet for the best part of forty-eight hours when Shuri came back to explain the next and hopefully final step to him. As they entered the new lab, specifically designed and built custom just for him, Bucky slowed, mouth drying. The tank was eerily similar to the one he had been in when Zemo infiltrated the UN. Bucky’s heart sped up at the sight of it, of the memory that didn’t waver, wasn’t washed and faded and tattered at the edges. A memory of not so long ago that wasn’t wiped from his slate mind like cleaning spilled blood on the floor. Shuri walked him over to the holding cell, and the clear front panel slid open as they approached. Bucky’s breathing picked up as he sat down in the seat, the left side padded while the right clipped into place over his body. The edges and corners were even more reinforced than the last one. They could never be too safe, even if the idea of something happening set off the overly sensitive alarms in Bucky’s head. 

“We don’t have to do this today.” Shuri was resolute in that. Nothing would be forced on Bucky again. 

“If I don’t do it now, it’ll never happen.” 

“Okay. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.” 

“Then the voiceover will start in a second.” Shuri backed away and the panel slid closed, trapping him in the box, anchored to the walls and ceiling and floor. Shuri stepped into the viewing room only a couple feet away and sat at a computer setup that dwarfed her. A female voice sounded through the speakers overhead, counting down. Bucky took one last deep breath on _one_ , held it deep in his diaphragm, let his lungs expand with it and pressurise like a balloon. Maybe they’d pop. Bucky kinda hoped they didn’t. Until:

“ _Longing._ ”

Bucky’s fist clenched and writhed. The cuff around it suddenly bothersome. His chest seized, body freezing, a shock of paralysis he didn’t realise would hurt this badly. Tears formed, on the precipice of falling, and he angled his head back, face screwing up. Squeezing his fingers together and flexing them apart, his feet moved in tandem. Erratically, his body shivered, vibrating with the words burrowing into his brain cells, infecting him like he’s just a host for the infestation of the Winter Soldier and its programming. 

_Remember him._

“ _Rusted._ ”

_I’m not sure I’m worth all this._

“ _Seventeen._ ”

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

“ _Daybreak._ ”

_I’m following him._

“ _Furnace._ ”

_I’m not gonna fight you._

“ _Nine._ ”

_Ready to comply._

“ _Benign._ ”

_Let’s hear it for Captain America!_

“ _Homecoming._ ”

_The man on the bridge._

“ _One.”_

_I knew him._

“ _Freight car._ ”

_Then finish it._

_Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car._

_Longingrustedseventeendaybreakfurnaceninebenignhomecomingonefreightcar._

_Soldat?_

“That’s not _me!_ ” Sobbing now, Bucky pulled and strained against the metal harness, against the anxiety and panic; the humming in his brain, foggy and static but…

But.

“Please, _please_ ,” In every language his tongue still knew, and every one it wished it did, Bucky stayed in tact. The soldier was still there somewhere, growling menace and spite, but it was broken into pieces, and Bucky was whole. It would take a long, long time, but Bucky Barnes was alive and mending, and that had to count for something. 

Bucky didn’t even hear the faint “End session,” over the speakers as his protectors rushed in to help him.

**_Oh, I’d apologize,_ **

“Could you please do something other than pace? I can see the footprints indenting Stark’s fancy flooring already, and I’m getting dizzy.” Steve couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit. Stark could go fuck himself on his shiny fancy flooring for all Steve truly cared. 

“You already won’t let me into the gym or even out of your sight for a good part of the day. You probably have me bugged to high heaven too, so what else am I supposed to do?” Natasha leaned back, the stool she lazed on groaning a little. Hands relaxed at her stomach, she pretended to ponder options while she looked to the ceiling. 

“God, I don’t know? Shave?” Steve grimaced. Couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit about that, either. He kinda liked the beard anyway.

“At least eat something, please?” Her tone grew soft around the edges, true concern seeping in. She’d been making herself a decidedly lacklustre meal when Steve had stormed the common area kitchen. “Surely All-American Steven G. Rogers can handle a little peanut butter?” She slid over a plate with three sandwiches already stacked neatly upon it, and started on making a fourth. 

“Just...I don’t know. Feels like I need to peel out of my skin,” He felt it more voraciously now, that bone deep burn and ache; a storm brewing over an ocean; blinding lights just before the impact. Salty lungs as the hopelessness sucks him deeper and darker, and all he can see is that hand reaching and reaching and reaching for him while the lights fade and his body fills with that poisoned water. That water on fire, pieces of everything falling around them.  

A man in purgatory, set ablaze. 

Steve rakes his fingers through his hair, longer now, unkempt and messy. He couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit. Go figure. “Like I can’t think or even fucking _exist_ , not knowing how he is.” Steve picked at the crust of the bread, hearing the sharp words of his mother in his head, reprimanding him for playing with his food. Natasha took a pensive bite of her sandwich in the silence, chewing and swallowing her bite before throwing the food back on the plate, smirking. 

“You really are a moron sometimes Rogers.” Steve looked her in the face and squinted, like he could pry open her skull with his eyes and figure out what was inside her head. “You’re acting as if we can’t just...go see him.” 

“With what plane?”

“I’m a world class spy and assassin, you don’t think I’ve hijacked a vehicle or two in my time?” She turned, prompting Steve to follow along behind like a lost puppy. “And besides,” she then tossed a glorious grin over her shoulder, catching Steve’s honestly dazed expression with her smile. “Stark gave me lower level quinjet clearance a week ago when he took off.”

“A week? He’s _gone_?” 

“No. He’s back now. About three days if any of my trackers are right, but Bucky’s only just been cleared for visitors. You couldn’t have gone to see him no matter how much of the world you would have torn apart to do it.” 

“Fine.” They stopped in the hallway just outside the quinjet bay, and Natasha stepped up to the scanner, letting it illuminate her face. Steve didn’t want to imagine the connections Natasha had, who her informants were and how she came to know them. Flashing green, the scanner ceased its metallic whirring, doors sliding apart mechanically as the sensors noticed them. The jet waiting for them wasn’t first class, but it would get them to Wakanda. _To Bucky_. Steve overtook Natasha then, powering towards the rapidly lowering jet entrance.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! don’t forget to kudos and add a comment if you like :>


	4. Four

**_But it was only self defense_ **

The silence as Steve and Natasha disembarked the quinjet in Wakanda was clipped. Tense enough that if Steve had not been a super soldier, he surely would’ve had an asthma attack; just like he was so privy to when he was nothing but a scrap with a constant vendetta against injustice (though there was nothing different about him now, besides a body that was better accommodating to his disposition). As they’d gotten closer and closer to their destination, the pressure only surmounted, winding and twisting like a coil, building and building. The exterior of the vessel could have been better, for all its dents and marks, but it was also one of the only ones Natasha had clearance for, in the wake of Tony’s ongoing hellfire. He’d cooled down some, and Steve wasn’t about to pick anymore fights, but they still didn’t look at each other in the eye, or even linger in the same space for longer than necessary. The wounds had been made, and now they were just waiting for the time and patience that helped them heal. As they walked from the gangway to the entrance of the castle, the huge stone panther looming acted as both a monument and a silent threat. They were greeted by both T’Challa and Shuri, the Dora Milaje stalking in the background, ready for any imminent dangers. 

“Your Majesties.” Steve’s tone was low, already anticipating and bow-string tight, patience thinning with every second he wasn’t in accordance with Bucky’s wellbeing. 

Natasha merely nodded her respect and added in a quiet “King,” followed by “Princess,” as she acknowledged them both. 

“Captain Rogers, Miss Romanov,” was all he gave them in return as he led them inside the castle, elite security encircling their entrance. 

“When can I see him?” T’Challa let a slight smile grace his stony, tired face at Steve’s enthusiasm. Taking over as king had already started to wear on him, just enough for it to show. 

“Shuri is most likely better equipped to answer any of your questions than I am, Captain.” Steve turned expectantly to the teen, face imploring, begging and somehow crying out all at once. Pure desperation. 

“Anytime is fine, though his level of consciousness may vary–” 

“I’d prefer if he was awake and could agree to having me in the room with him.” Natasha had yet to interject, though Steve was grateful that she thought better of interfering with this. 

“Of course, Captain Rogers, I will go check on him now and be back shortly.” As she turned on her heel and walked further into the castle’s depths, he didn’t have the chance to let out a rattling  _ thank you _ before she disappeared. 

**_Running away just made sense_ **

“Captain Rogers has requested to see you, James.” Bucky wondered why they’d all referred back to his actual name, as if any version of him that didn’t want to be called Bucky could exist, implants or not. It had been three days since they tried the trigger words again, and he was exhausted but better. Getting there minute by minute. 

“I’ve told you Bucky is fine, Shuri. Does he know I’m awake?”

“He was quite insistent on seeing you, though something tells me he will be relieved to have your total permission.” Bucky let out a soft snort at that. Some things would never change.

“Yeah. Guess I gotta see him some time. Tell him I’m ready whenever he decides to come, please?”

“I should probably mention that he arrived in Wakanda just over an hour ago, then.” She looked sheepish as the alarm on his face registered. 

“I hadn’t expected that.”

“I can tell him soon, if not today?”

“No, no I…” What did he want? To see Steve, of course, but now that he knew the surgery had worked to its fullest capacity, he didn’t know what he would do with himself and the inevitable rejection. “I want to see him.” Sometimes it was better to rip the bandaids off while they were still firmly attached to skin, without letting the edges soak or soften or peel first. 

“Okay, Bucky. He’ll be in soon then.”

He was acutely aware of his solitude as she left the room, doubt pooling in the pockets within his head where the implants had been only days ago. He’d survived the Depression, plagues and danger, the streets of Brooklyn; then war, people entering his life to be taken just as fast, Europe acting as the finest martyr, the final crescendo in a symphony of hatred; being captured, then being rescued, and having Steve (broader, taller, Captain America –  _ but still as beautiful, still undoubtedly his Stevie _ ) back at the same time; being with him. _ ‘Til the end of the line. _

No one could’ve known that the line was cut, as he fell from that train. The snow and ice freezing him in his descent, arm mangled in the sour landing – how had he survived all of this, only to be condemned to equal pain the for the best part of the three quarters of a century that followed? Maybe this was his punishment, in a roundabout, psychotic world, where he was being admonished for being able to tolerate the duplicate serum and all its bitter imperfections.

And so, this was his biggest fear of them all: the divergence between all the men he once was – _James_ , _Bucky_ , _Sergeant_ , _Hero_ , _Asset_ – and the man that had been spat out the other side. He wouldn't just _be_ Bucky Barnes ever again. What would Steve do when he realised Bucky had died from the fall in 1945? What would he do when he realised this Bucky wasn’t _his_ Bucky, but an imposter? He was all but a ghost taking up residence in a body that he wasn’t sure would ever feel like his again. No amount of autonomy could change that kind of programming. Seventy years was a long time to try and make up for.

The princess came out to meet with Steve and Natasha again, sitting down and talking them through everything. With Natasha sitting back and letting Steve ask as many questions as he needed to be satisfied, she acted as a grounding tool for him, a passive listener who still cared, but also let him do what he needed to rid some of his anxieties. Shuri was brilliant, too, never hesitating or withholding the information Steve wanted – no,  _ needed  _ – finally announcing, “I have talked to him, and he consented to seeing you, Captain. I would advise you to be careful, though I can’t imagine you need to be told. As long as he stays calm, you should be fine. He’s awake and alert. Shall I take you to him?” 

The earth seemed to crumble and disappear around him with those words, his mouth drying, tongue uncomfortable in his mouth. He could feel Natasha studying him, gauging his impulses and reflexes, and he didn’t even recognise the fact he was nodding at the princess – Shuri, she’d told them to call her. As Nat reached for him, he felt the molasses thickened time warp and snap back into reality, suddenly on overdrive, he was burning so infallibly with need. Clambering out of his skin, he could feel his spirit rolling throughout his body with an absolute inferno of restlessness to see him, at least.  _ Just let me see him, because every time I do it may be the last.  _ He was almost running, then, following Shuri, with Natasha by his side as she smiled. Being a Widow had its perks, as she continued to unravel his carefully wrapped layers with her eyes, equal parts amused and relieved at how purely, stupendously agitated Steve was at the first instance of Bucky’s awakening. The halls they were led through were sterile and devoid of other people, and Steve could almost hear the relief screaming inside his head as they came to a stop outside a clinical set of double doors.

“His suite is just through there, but I’ll leave you to go inside at your own pace. If anything happens, there’s alerts in his room like you’d find in a regular hospital. I’ll still be close by, worst case scenario.”

“Thank you Shuri, you have no idea what this means.”

“It is an honour, Captain. Now go.” Shuri smiled as Steve turned towards the door, breathing so deep she could see his frame expand from the three feet away she was standing. As he disappeared through the doors, Natasha following, the recently blonde woman turned, dipping her head in appreciation, not really knowing if the princess truly understood the magnitude of what she’d not only done for Bucky, but Steve too.

**_But here I am with arms unfolding_ **

Inside the doors was another hallway, with a single window looking into a room on each side. Steve stood, poised and ready and tense, staring into the glass where he could see Bucky on the other side, in his bed, turned away from the door and watching Wakanda breathe through the open windows facing the city. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that told him Bucky was unknowing; the instinct they had for each other had never wavered, with no reason to start now. Natasha brushed against him, gentle as she held his forearm and Steve finally broke away to look at her.

“You deserve this, Steve.” Reaching up to kiss his cheek, he had to fight back the burning beyond his eyelids, simply nodding as she let him go, retreating to sit in the armchair he hadn’t even realised was there before now. He raised his fist to the door, knocked once, twice, and again for good measure, holding his breath with every second that passed between that and the faint  _ come in _ that followed. He entered the room, and Bucky was there,  _ alive _ , with his heart monitor chirping melodically as a testament.

The silent prayer between them begged for the reprieve that this would be the last introduction they’d ever have to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! don’t forget to kudos and add a comment if you like :>


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i lied, here is the benchmark of 10k words and then some. one more chapter after this. 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading :)

  ** _I guess it isn’t quite the end_**

Then, there was sound. Heartbeats out of time, out of rhythm, but recognising one another. 

Breathing. Staring. 

All too much. 

Somehow not enough. 

Though, just like always, there was a symbiosis between the two.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve could barely spit the words out. He flushed, and Bucky, always beautiful, perfect, starstruck Bucky, readjusted the cannula in his nose. _Seriously?_ The thought had crossed both their minds. _What could he possibly need that for?_ Anything else he’d planned on saying curled up and disintegrated on his tongue, so desperate to reach out and touch him, hold him, smile or reassure him that he would never be alone again. _Never again, never again, never again._ “It’s...it’s good to have you back, pal.” Steve would never force what they’d once danced around onto him. Not now – or ever, if Bucky didn’t want it. Bucky could live the rest of his life making every decision for himself, and it still wouldn’t be enough to compensate for what had been done. Rage sweltered, contained but poisonous in Steve’s stomach at the thought.

For the first time since he’d stepped out of that chamber as Captain America, Steve wished to be that pathetic boy from Brooklyn, even just for familiarity and a sense of what they’d had: all scraps and sharp edges and pale skin spread over brittle bones, pulled taut like a canvas and coloured just as hauntingly. A quilt of blues and purples covering him, healing slower than it took to paint over his art on the single framed stretch of material Bucky had saved up to buy for Christmas. 

Steve had never been able to track down the frame itself, its layers of history and colour peeling and destroyed from years hidden beneath the floorboards of his excavated apartment. Though he had read the poster at the Smithsonian in D.C., highlighting all of Steve’s pre-war-era artwork in the American History display at the Met. Was able to find the recording from 1947, of Peggy standing beside a man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, on the internet, probably courtesy of some young enthusiast who didn’t entirely care for technicalities on the rights to the video. Watched as the historian carefully photographed the layers of Steve’s life, Peggy as a spectator in her S.H.I.E.L.D. skirt-suit and red lacquered mouth. Watched as he pulled back the layers of the canvas, each piece of whited over newspaper cracking even with the man’s gentle motions. Within that, the feeling, as though they were peeling Steve himself open – wide and raw and painful – didn’t cease. His chest cracking open like an eggshell; heart and lungs liquified, running like a punctured yolk, bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding. The Brooklyn skyline; then a portrait of Steve’s mother; then, more abstract, a cataclysmic rendition of what Steve had believed at the time to be his demons, each face bearing an uncanny resemblance to his more constant bullies, faces that sneered and rushed to him in his dreams. Finally, then, as they’d started to peel that last piece of newspaper away, Peggy reached out to the man, almost distracted as she started down at the tops of the heads being uncovered. She’s recognised them both straight away. 

_“Can you turn off the recording now?”_

_“Listen lady, we’re makin’ history here with these paintings. We can’t just stop the documentation.”_

_“As an official S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and representative of Captain Rogers’s public image in light of his death, I’m_ ordering _you to cut the film.”_

Steve had been soothed by that, Peggy’s insistence clear on her face as the clip cut off. The painting had been of Bucky and Steve, dancing in the living room, what little furniture they’d had pushed into the embrace of the stained walls. Bucky’s hands: huge, _warm_ , calloused palms that captured Steve’s best memories and fondest touches – with fingers skating together between lowered eyelids, blunt nails caught around slack material where Steve would never grow into his undershirt – lay resting on his chest. Like he wasn’t smaller; like he wasn’t sickly or shaped like a young boy. It was a pure touch that gave him the world in a moment and nothing less, so tender and so fleeting. Foreheads together, noses brushing, Steve’s Picasso heart finally rearranged and beating in tandem with his love’s. He’d painted the scene from memory and from perspective, with the way his own spanning fingers lay light and protective against Bucky’s waist. Them, with so many secrets and so many vices. Them, with so many glorious virtues. Them, inside their home together, where Bucky could be _doll_ and _baby_ and _honey_ all he wanted; the finest broad in Brooklyn. 

And Steve had _wanted,_  God, had he wanted, for all the things he’d received courtesy of the serum. Suddenly, though, he found himself gut wrenchingly uncomfortable, displaced and standing idle near the doorway. Slouched to make himself as small as possible, all the wanting and wishing for that small spitfire body he’d hated with unadulterated revulsion came to a head, even if only to not pull on the traumatised chords in Bucky’s brain – Shuri and her team had done so much, fixed all that they could, taken the implants and most of the triggers, but nothing would ever fully reverse the damage.

And Bucky just lay there, halfway between upright and prone, not looking at Steve but not making any efforts to look specifically away. The markings from the incisions on his forehead were faint, and fading evermore with each hour that passed. His eyes shifted towards Steve, finally, as he spoke words the blond was sure he’d never get to hear.

**_Old partner in crime, I’m going to try_ **

“I remember you. Look different, though.” Steve swallowed around the heart he found in his throat, beating like it had when he was just some weak punk looking for trouble in every back-alley of New York, erratic, caught up so painfully tight it was a miracle he hadn’t had an aneurysm. Maybe he had. If this was heaven, Steve didn’t think it was such a bad place to be. “The beard isn’t bad.” Bucky looked back down at that, his hair coming untucked from where it had rested behind his ear. Steve didn’t move, waiting to be invited forward, but could see the alternate reality where Bucky was in the bed for another reason, wasn’t recovering from what had to have been the longest recorded count of torture. One where Steve could step forward – or could have maybe been here the entire time, sitting by the bed – and curl his fingers to tuck the hair back, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. 

“You can come in, you know,” Bucky let it out so softly that had he not had enhanced hearing now, Steve wouldn’t have heard him. Thank God he didn’t need a hearing aid anymore. “I don’t bite.” Steve breathed out a laugh at that.

“Are you sure? Sank your teeth into my hand real good when we were at the Potomac.”

“That wasn’t me.” There was an edge of defensiveness at that, and Steve winced as he sat back into the chair near the window. _Stifling_ would be an accurate descriptor of the scene, really, as Steve was reminded of Peggy’s palliative care suite. This place was set up much the same.

“Course it wasn’t, I’m sorry Bucky.” The edge of the pristine blanket Bucky held in his hand was starting to fray as he picked at the threads. His side still ached, where they’d taken out all that was left of his old arm, replacing every piece in his shoulder and extending over the left side of his back with vibranium plates. His new arm could be attached or detached at any time. Whenever he was ready.

“Glad to hear you still walk around with your foot in your mouth, Rogers.” They both laughed quietly at that. Familiar. Bucky’s smile faded suddenly as he stared down at his fingers, eyes flickering, searching for something that tiptoed in his mind and whispered so softly in his ear. _Remember_.

“ _You’ll Never Know._ The Sinatra version. You...liked that one better.” Steve could only gape as Bucky continued. “After Stark Expo that night, it was playing on the radio in the kitchen. You told me you were going to smoke one of those asthma cigarettes...to clear your lungs after all the dancing even though you didn’t get up from your seat once. I could hear you crying at the table, you know?” Steve turned his head away. He couldn’t muster the energy to be embarrassed. _Maybe I’m completely and utterly relieved_ – _is that what this weightless feeling is?_ “You still smoked the cigarette too. Amazing they didn’t kill you, the way you’d come in stumbling afterwards. I got sent out the next day. Do you remember?” Bucky finally looked up, at the same moment as Steve, and their eyes met properly for the first time. Bucky’s gaze was imploring, desperate in a way, like his life depended on this tiny time-drunk memory, like his sanity rested solely upon Steve’s confirmation. _He’s the only one I’ve always been able to trust._

“Yeah, Buck, I remember it like it was yesterday. Hated that song after you left though.” Then, he was staring, like Steve owned every star in the sky, and had one held out to him in gentle, unassuming palms. A gift. _All for you, and only ever for you._

“I know it might be out of line, Steve,” there was a certain surprise to the words that neither of them was expecting. As he continued, Bucky even shocked himself, saying: “do you think you could...hug me?” Steve’s mouth dropped again, spluttering as his resolve was destroyed.

“ _Please,”_  he finally breathed out, careful to approach as gently as he could. Hyper aware of Bucky’s side, still tender but healing with every passing second, he leant over Bucky’s body as benevolently as he had ever been with him before. Still, despite the surgery, but exponentially better than previous attempts at contact, Bucky seized.

“Don’t stop, please, my brain is just being stupid. It knows you. Don’t worry.” And so Steve leaned in further, winding his left hand up, cradling the back of Bucky’s head to bypass touching that side, with his other arm scooping in from below, letting Bucky wrap around his neck, his fingers grasping the material of Steve’s henley.

_You are safe._ The voice was not startling to him anymore, especially now, with Steve to protect him. He just closed his eyes then, tucking his face into the junction of Steve’s neck and shoulder.

_You are home._

  **_To fall in love with you again_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! don’t forget to kudos and add a comment if you like :>


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